


The Case of the Dead Dean

by Sioux



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-28
Updated: 2017-12-28
Packaged: 2019-02-23 02:21:13
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,953
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13180341
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sioux/pseuds/Sioux
Summary: John always plants a Remembrance cross.





	The Case of the Dead Dean

Curiously Sherlock watched his partner from his position, laid out like a medieval stone effigy, on the sofa. 

As usual John hadn't watched any of the Remembrance Day programmes on television. Neither had he participated in, nor watched, laying of wreaths at any cenotaph. But here he was in his best blazer, shoes polished to a mirror shine, fresh white shirt, tie and razor sharp crease in his trousers.

He was currently engaged in giving his black woollen coat a good brush before donning the garment and checking his appearance in the mirror. As he straightened his hair and adjusted the way his coat sat, his hand brushed his left coat pocket.

Sherlock had already deduced a small Remembrance cross sat snugly in the recesses of the pocket. The padded envelope had arrived earlier the previous week but had been quickly whisked away from his prying eyes, not to mention prying fingers!

'Won't be long,' John said, looking at him through the mirror.

Sherlock gave a hardly there grunt, but otherwise remained motionless.

John's eyes smiled at him through the glass before he left the apartment and trotted quickly down the stairs. The sound of the outside door closing galvanised Sherlock into movement. He watched from the window, not close enough to be seen from the outside, but near enough to see which direction John had taken.

Within minutes Sherlock was dressed and shrugging his way into a battered khaki jacket which had seen better days, a woolly beanie hat pulled low over his forehead, fingerless gloves, torn jeans and dirty trainers completed his ensemble. With the several days stubble adorning his face and slumping his shoulders to disguise his true height he set off in hot pursuit.

Each year, for all the years that John and he had been sharing a flat, even for the two years he made his best friend believe he was dead, John had carried out this ritual. And each and every year that Sherlock had followed him, John had managed to evade him.

Sherlock had picked up nuggets of knowledge over time, such as the small wooden cross bore the name 'Dean Hall'. John always waited until the afternoon before setting off. He always walked, whatever the weather, and despite not ever seeing John plant the cross Sherlock was ninety-eight percent sure it was planted somewhere in the Remembrance Gardens of Westminster Abbey.

Forty-five minutes brisk walk brought the entrance to the gardens in sight. The crowds were still quite thick, despite most people usually having planted their Remembrances earlier in the day, when it was ticket holders only. 

Sherlock kept his head down and dodged between well dressed civilians and service personnel in their number ones, keeping his quarry in sight but not close enough for John to realise he was being followed, yet again.

A particularly large group of mixed gender RAF and civilians had gathered on the path and were quietly watching three of their number plant several crosses. Sherlock wasn't slow in dodging around them but by the time he was on the path again John's grey hair and black coat had disappeared.

Sherlock looked around, wildly, his eyes taking in everything. When he began to run along the path, garnering a multitude of disapproving looks at his behaviour, he simply ignored them all until he'd completed a full circuit. John was no longer within the precincts of the Abbey. He'd lost him, again!

He knew his brother could have picked John up quickly with his network of cameras around the city but he did not want to ask Mycroft for help in this. This was something personal, something between he and John. Whoever Dean Hall had been, he had obviously been tremendously important to John. A small voice at the back of his mind, which sounded exactly like John's voice, whispered to him that he was only doing this out of jealousy. He replied, loftily, that he was above such petty emotions.   
The voice laughed.

Exasperated, Sherlock threw himself down on one of the convenient benches, worrying the lone female occupant on the other end so much so that she stood and hurried away.

Sherlock sat and silently ranted at himself, almost grinding his teeth in frustration. A figure in a dark coat quietly sat down, almost next to him. Sherlock turned to the unwanted intruder, ready to snarl some disagreeable deduction in order to keep the bench to himself only to be confronted by his errant flatmate.

'You know, instead of all these years of cloak and dagger stuff, you could have just tried the normal approach, if you're so interested,' John stated in a reasonable tone of voice, looking around at the milling people.

'I should be able to deduce everything about this man,' Sherlock ground out.

'If you manage to deduce everything about this man, I will bow down before you!' John replied, quietly, looking him straight in the eye. 'Because I know practically nothing about him, only that he was an immensely kind and an excellent nurse in Afghanistan. And he stayed with me, above and beyond the call of duty, when I desperately needed someone.'

'He was a comrade? Nothing more?'

'We were never physically involved, if that's what you're asking,' John stated, a slight smile lingering around his lips.

Sherlock felt like a weight had disappeared from his shoulders. All these years John hadn't been mourning a lover, he had been remembering a comrade.

When he turned back John was looking steadily at him, then he raised an eyebrow.

Taking a deep breath, Sherlock said, very quickly, 'Will you tell me about Dean Hall, please!'

John settled back against the bench, his gaze leaving Sherlock for the middle distance.

'I first saw Corporal Hall a few days before I got shot. I'd come out of fifteen hours of surgery, done the paperwork then went to do a last round before hitting my bed.

One of the men I'd operated on in the early afternoon was becoming very agitated and distressed. Another batch of wounded had arrived, nurses were busy so I went over to see to Sergeant Blakeson. He'd nearly thrown himself out of the bed, he was in such a state. He had a spiking fever, disorientated and his pain meds were wearing off. He fought me so much I was about to shout for help and for a large dose of morphine to knock him out when another pair of hands were helping me. Between us we got him back into the bed, his IV's reconnected, catheter back in then the nurse produced all the drugs I was just about to ask for and ready to go. Whilst he injected them I wrote them up. Then he sat down with a bowl of water and a cloth and wiped down this big, burly bloke who settled down like a baby hearing his mother's voice. Never seen anything like it.'

"I'll take it from here, Cap. You get some rest," he said.

"What about you? There's going to be another intake of wounded coming through soon."

"I've only just come on duty, Sir. I'm OK."

'I nodded and wrote up another prescription.' 

"This is in case...." 

'I left the order hanging when the Corporal nodded. We both knew Blakeson was unlikely to last until dawn. He had that look about him, a man with more than one foot on the other side.'

"The Sarge and me, we'll be fine, Sir." 

'He smiled and nodded at me, then went back to looking after Sergeant Blakeson. I stayed for a minute or so then he said quietly, 

"My Great Aunt Sarah used to tell me, when she was nursing in the Great War, that all men need at this time is quiet, dignity and a hand to hold."

"Sounds like an amazing woman."

"She was, Sir, she was."

"What's your name Corporal? I don't think I've seen you before."

"Hall, Sir. Corporal Dean Hall. Just been shipped in, three days ago. Not seen you before, either, Sir."

"Watson. Captain John Watson."

'We shook hands, as I was walking out of post-op, I looked back, Blakeson was holding onto Hall's hand, whilst he was sponging him down and lowering his fever. I know we'd given Blakeson a good shot of morphine and various other drugs to help him until his body made the firm decision to either get well or give up, but he looked so serene and I knew not enough time had passed for all the pharmaceuticals to take effect.

'Hall's lips were moving, speaking very, very quietly to Blakeson. I looked around at the other occupied beds and the two other nurses who were efficiently taking care of their patients, despite the muted sound of missiles hitting the mountains in the distance, it felt warm and safe and comfortable in there.

'I saw him the next night in pre-op. His triage skills were amazing; he could work out those who could be saved quicker than I could, then he stayed nursing the ones left and quite often, he'd appear later on in post-op. He seemed to work around the clock.'

John was quiet for a few minutes, lost in his memories.

'You know what happened next.'

'You got shot.'

'I got shot. Can't remember being triaged, or being brought back to camp, just remember waking up, I think it was night, but can't be sure and Dean was there, nursing me. I remember telling him not to hold my hand. He laughed and said I wasn't going anywhere, he was saving me for something better, something amazing.

'Every time I woke up, after every surgery, he was there. He'd hold up his hands and say, see, not holding your hand, Doc. He always made me feel hopeful.

'I missed him when I was flown back to Queen Elizabeth Hospital. Missed everyone. Then I met you.'

Sherlock's brow creased. John let him think it through for a few seconds.

'Your story is not yet finished,' Sherlock said, casting his clear gaze on his companion.

John smiled at his deduction and continued speaking.

'After we were introduced to Mike and started solving cases together, I sent a letter to Hall, thanking him for his nursing skills and his bedside manner. I also sent a letter of commendation to whom I assumed would be his commanding officer saying the same thing and recommending him for promotion. It was after Baskerville when the letter I'd sent him was returned to me, 'unknown recipient' stamped all over it; the letter of commendation was returned to me via an RAMC liaison officer. We met for a coffee in town, he returned my letter to me and than gave me a folder, a picture of Dean stapled to the inside. He was listed as KIA.'

Sherlock's warm hand, gently wormed it's way around John's.

'When did it happen?' Sherlock asked quietly.

'Three years before I was posted to Afghanistan.'

There was a pause before he asked sharply, 'What?'

'You heard. Army liaison admitted I'm not the only one who has encountered Corporal Hall since his demise. Many medical staff and patients have seen him and conversed with him. He's assisted staff and nursed patients, all since he's been dead and buried, both before I arrived in Afghanistan and after I left.'

'And the army will go on record about Corporal Hall?'

'Not a chance. The liaison officer with no name and, apparently, no rank, was quite emphatic about that. He also told me, quite categorically, that if I told anyone about Corporal Hall, he would deny the conversation ever took place.' 

Sherlock removed his hand from John's and took his phone from his pocket.

'Don't bother. Mycroft has already checked the records for me. Even top secret records. He did die on the date in his file, his body was repatriated and he was buried next to his mother and his Great Aunt Sarah. And he is still being seen, every now and then, nursing the tough cases in war zones.'

'Why didn't you tell me about this before now?' Sherlock asked, rather hurt.

'We hadn't really known each other than long then, didn't want you to think I was more round the bend than you already knew.'

'You told Mycroft.'

'Mycroft already knew most of the story, I just used him to try and find out what was going on. I've told you all I know about him. Now, deduce him for me, please.'

Sherlock sat up straight, his brain working as faster than ever but all that came out of his mouth was, 

'I don't believe in the supernatural.'

John snorted a laugh as he stood up. 

'Neither do I. Come on, it's getting dark, let's go home.'

 

For the next year the case of Dead Dean, as Sherlock privately named it, continued to gnaw at him. 

In odd moments, when John wasn't around, he continued to study Hall's file, which had appeared, via a courier, a few days after Remembrance Day. A note, in Mycroft's careful, precise handwriting, informed him that the dates were correct, there was a body in the grave which conformed to Hall's expected condition and a DNA test carried out on the remains were positive for Corporal Dean Hall.

Sherlock checked birth records, no other live births were recorded for his parents, so a sibling wasn't a possibility. With DNA proof taken by Mycroft, Dean Hall was, indeed, exactly where he was supposed to be. 

Sherlock had managed to speak to one or two other ex-army personnel, under the guise of preparing a book on Afghanistan, who had mentioned Dean as being a bloody good nurse but had no further information. 

It nagged at him and nibbled at the edges of his mind palace on nights when John slept peacefully at his side but he was too tense to sleep. 

The body was exactly where it was supposed to be; the official picture of Dean Hall matched John's memory of the man; several other people, hard-headed, rational people, remembered him, and identified him from his picture but insisted Sherlock must have got his dates wrong when he told them the man had been killed in action before they had encountered him.

Birth records matched, there were no holes in the background information which Mycroft's minions had dug up about the man. Loathe as Sherlock was to admit it, the investigation Mycroft had carried out was meticulous in every detail. He could find no fault.

As summer melted into a wet and windy autumn, he was no nearer to solving the riddle of Dean Hall. 

The Remembrance cross arrived, John's black woollen coat came back from the dry-cleaners, his shoes were shined and the white shirt ironed in preparation.

As John stood in front of the mirror, adjusting the fit of his coat, Sherlock emerged from their room, suit as impeccable as ever, hair coiffed and a black coat of his own, over his arm.

John stopped his preparations, his face questioning through the mirror.

Sherlock adjusted his cuff then said,

'If you have no objections I should like to accompany you.'

'It will make a change from you following me,' John replied, giving his coat sleeves a final pull into position.

'Is that a yes?' 

'It's a yes, Sherlock.' 

They walked together, but companionably silent for a time, down the road, merging with the others who were heading to the Gardens of Remembrance. 

'So you didn't find anything out about Dean?' John asks.

'On the contrary, I found out everything about him, from birth to death.'

John stopped suddenly. 'So?'

'So what?'

'So why did I see him after he'd died?' John elaborated.

'I have no idea. You asked me if I'd found anything out about Dean Hall, not if I knew why you thought you'd spoken to him after he'd been buried for three years.'

'So you don't know,' John says, walking on again. 

Sherlock stayed silent.

'It's OK to admit it,' John muttered, annoyed.

'I don't know why you and at least fifteen other people admit to seeing him after he died.'

John stopped suddenly. 

'Fifteen other people?'

'At least, those are only the ones who agreed to speak to me.'

'You and me are going to have a long talk when we get back, Sherlock.'

 

John bypassed the popular places, instead heading to a quieter area, shaded by trees which were beginning to drop their leaves. Sherlock stayed on the path as John strode forward, planted the cross and then stood and saluted. Sherlock held his hands in front of him and lowered his head in respect. 

He still didn't believe in the supernatural but he had no explanation for the enigma of this man who had nursed his dearest John. Whatever the final elucidation he was incredibly thankful that John had survived, by whatever means, to become the centre of his world.

John crossed the strip of grass back to him and smiled.

'Come on, let's go home, and have that little talk,' John said, turning and walking away.

Sherlock looked back at the cross, almost hidden in the rapidly gathering gloaming.

A young man, standing under one of the trees, dressed in desert camouflage uniform, gave Sherlock a cheery wave and a cheeky wink. His face already imprinted into Sherlock's memory.

After a seconds pause, Sherlock's lips formed the words, 'Thank you!'

The young man's pleasant face creased into a smile then he turned and was lost to the evening dusk.

'Sherlock! Sherlock are you alright?'

Slowly Sherlock tore his gaze from the impossible and turned it to his incredible life companion.

'Never better John, never better. Let's go home.'


End file.
